Storytime

Growing up, I wrote all the time, whether it was movie scripts, poetry, or keeping a daily journal. I always had my composition notebook, jotting down whatever came to my mind. I loved writing. It was my world, an escape, and a way of making sense of the large emotions I had.

But all of that changed when I was still a child. On two separate occasions, my cousins and my uncle read my journal. They caught glimpses of the thoughts I had poured out so privately, and I hated it. I felt exposed, seen even. But largely, I felt betrayed. Like my trust and privacy meant nothing to them.

One thing I did as a younger person was value my own privacy. I never wanted anyone to know what she was thinking or feeling. When I couldn’t make sense of my thoughts, I’d write them out; my journal was the only thing that truly kept me sane. I was able to express myself freely without judgment. For them to invade that space and read what I had written hurt more than I could explain.

Since then, I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. If I kept everything in my head, no one could ever invade my mind again. No one would know the real me or my deepest secrets. I made it my mission not to let anyone in. I rarely picked up another notebook.

Now, years later, I started writing again, only to realize I’m terrible at writing. I felt so behind in my writing. If I had stuck with it, I wouldn't feel this way. I really wish I hadn’t stopped. I wish I hadn’t let them take away something I cared about so much. However, cheers to this journey of finding my voice again.